


Shoe Box

by hitthehospital



Series: Shoes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Homophobia, I'm Sorry, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parental Abuse, kind of badly writtn, look i cant even spell, maybe? - Freeform, oh well, teen!lock, trigger content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7994539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitthehospital/pseuds/hitthehospital
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets up for school after a night of adventure with the mysterious Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shoe Box

**Author's Note:**

> can you please tell me if there are any grammatical/spelling errors, please?

John's eyes opened sleepily.  
Another day.  
He rolled out of bed, his feet landing in the worn carpet.  
John folded his duvet over and tucked the edges under the mattress of his single bed.  
The boy patted across the landing, into the bathroom. He locked the door. The pain in John’s side throbbed with every movement as he undressed. He stepped into the shower, the hot water burning against his cool body.  
Last night seemed like a dream; the blood, the chips, the strange boy...  
John turned the shower off.  
He dried himself, wrapped the towel around his waist, and trotted back to his room.  
Standing in front of the mirror, the repercussions front the night before bloomed on his skin and ribs. He gingerly touched his cheek, flinching. A red bruise flowered on his cheek bone and snaked around his eye socket. John sighed, long and hard.  
Reaching below his tired bed, he pulled out a beaten shoe box. John lifted the lid off, the bed creaking below him as he sat. He tenderly placed the faded and torn photographs of his mother and his sister to his side. Their mouths were pulled into grins, unaware of the coming years. Notes and lines and his mother’s scrawled hand-writing came next as he carefully unpacked his heart. Finally, he found what he was searching for. His sister’s old concealer. Unscrewing the cap, he rose from the bed slowly and slouched toward the mirror. The boy dabbed the concealer around the bruises marking his face, wincing with each touch. He sighed heavily. The make-up was placed back in the box, along with his memories, and placed back into the dust and dark where it now lived.  
John shrugged into his uniform, groaning with each small manoeuvre.  
He grabbed his tatty rucksack and jogged down the stairs. He was halfway across the hall when-  
"What the fuck’re you wearing?”  
John froze. His heart raced.  
"I said, what the fuck’re you wearing?"  
He took a racked breath, flinching from the pain in his side, and turned around cautiously to face the kitchen doorway - turned to face his father.  
The man slouched in a kitchen chair, yesterday’s crinkled shirt sticking to skin, brown bottle in hand.  
"It’s my uniform." John answered warily as he averted his eyes to the checked linoleum floor.  
Mr Watson slammed his hand on the table.  
John's heart skipped. He flicked his eyes back to the man.  
His father's worn face warped with anger.  
"It’s my uniform, sir" the boy whispered.  
The older man’s face relaxed, amusement slipping into his features. “You look like a bender,” he chuckled.  
John’s stomach twisted.  
The man laughed again, staring at the floor for a few seconds before the smile slipped off his face. He took a slow swig from his poison.  
John watched wearily.  
The man lowered the bottle. He sighed heavily before turning to look at his son once again. “Where were you last night?”  
“I was at rugby practice, si-“  
"-Like hell you were- I know when you're lying!"  
"I-"  
"-DO NOT ANSWER BACK!" Mr Watson stood. The wooden chair clattered to the floor. He glared at it. "Look what you've done now." The older man averted his eyes back to John. He stared, too long, as if it was the first time he had seen a creature so strange.  
“What’s that on your face?” He lifted a finger as he prowled closer.  
"Nothing, sir," John breathed, recoiling into himself slightly his father closed in.  
John gasped as the man grabbed his chin, twisting his head sharply to the side. “What is this?”  
John’s lungs felt too tight.  
The man ran his finger, hard, over his son’s face. The boy grimaced. His father stared at the make-up-stained finger, his worn face blank.  
"What the fuck is this?" His voice was too calm.  
“Nothing,” John whimpered. His father’s hand clamped harder on his face.  
“Is this fucking make-up?” His father’s voice was barely a whisper.  
John tried to shake his head, not daring to take his eyes off Mr Watson.  
“Is my son wearing make-up? Like a fucking fag?” The man spat, his breath tinged with the sour scent of alcohol.  
John sobbed, “No, si-“  
His father pushed him against the wall, causing John cry out at the pain in his ribs.  
The older man’s features contorted in fury. He held his finger up to John’s face. “Don’t be such a fucking-“  
-A rapping came from the door.  
His father froze, face still millimetres from John’s.  
The door tapped again.  
The man glared at John. He pushed himself away from the wall and strode to the door. John collapsed against the wall. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes, but not before he saw Mr Watson opened the door with a smile.  
"Is this the Watson residence?" A familiar voice cut through the heavy air. But it couldn’t be – not here. John slowly raised his eyes to the doorway.  
"Who are you?" Mr Watson asked, politely.  
"Sherlock." John breathed, eyebrows knitted with confusion.  
Sure enough, the other boy stood on the porch of his house, John’s house. He was too beautiful for this place –his pale skin and floppy black hair too perfect for this world of fade and grey. Sherlock’s sharp eyes flicked from Mr Watson to his friend. "John," he smirked.  
John’s father adjusted his stance, titling his head back slightly. "I asked you a question. Who are you?"  
Sherlock took a quick intake of breath as he peeled his eyes away from John and toward Mr Watson. "Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes, a class mate of John's,” he smiled courteously.  
Mr Watson returned the smile bitterly. "Of course."  
John’s father turned to him, the grin still plastered on his face. "Better go off to school now, John."  
Sherlock turned, walking up the empty driveway to the road. The blond forced a smile as picked up his discarded rucksack and shuffled toward the outside, toward Sherlock. Mr Watson stood in the doorway. As John attempted to pass, he blocked the door way with an arm. The boy averted his eyes to the floor. "I haven't finished with you,” the man hissed in his ear, causing John to cringe away slightly. His father dropped the barrier. John hurried out.  
Sherlock waited on the street, beaming. "Come on John, hurry up!"  
John sighed, walking past the other boy. "I'm not feeling that good right now, Sherlock, so please don't."  
Sherlock jogged to catch up, the grin now a permanent fixture. "I know," he continued.  
"Then wh-"  
"Just laugh like I said something funny," Sherlock interjected.  
"Wh-"  
"John." He smiled and, for reasons beyond his knowledge, John followed suit. John laughed, beguiled by the other boy’s charm. "Why are we doing this, Sherlock?" John asked through his teeth.  
Sherlock didn’t answer as they walked around the corner of the road. Sherlock stops, gently grabbing John's hand, halting him. The other boy’s long fingers felt so good in his. John turned to him. "Sher-?"  
"Are you okay?" He interjected, startling John.  
"What? I-"  
Sherlock carefully holds the blond’s face in his slender hands, examining it. John’s stomach flips – the other boy was just inches away-  
"Did he hit you?" Sherlock asked, shocking John into confusion.  
"What're-"  
"-Did. He. Hit. You?" Sherlock fussed, more sternly this time.  
Realisation dawned on John.  
"What the fuck? No!" John protested, pushing away from the other boy.  
Sherlock let go of his face, sighing. He ran his hands through his dark hair and started to pace. "Okay, well..."  
"Where the hell did you get that?" John seethed, voice dangerously quiet.  
The boy didn’t respond. John boiled.  
"Why the fuck d’you think that?"  
Sherlock wouldn’t stop moving.  
"You've made it worse, y'know." John growls.  
The other boy stopped.  
"See you in chemistry." Sherlock smiled, shortly and sadly, at him. It was such a small, pitiful thing, leaving John sick inside.  
"Sherlock-" John breathed with unease, moving toward him.  
Sherlock turned away, pulling his blazer around him, and strode, hunched, away from John.  
The putrid anger bubbled and steamed until John exploded, rage screaming out of him. He yelled, kicking the wall in his fury. He yelled until there was no air left in his lungs.


End file.
